She turned the spit, over and over, her stomach anxious and her mouth watering. The smell of roasting meat amid the windblown desolation brought a weakness to her chest that went beyond hunger. A sheen of hot oil had formed on the browning goose skin, sliding downward into rivulets and drops as she turned the spit. He ran the whalebone stay over the goose, skimming the clear drippings, and held it out to her.
"Eat that. No use wasting it in the fire."
She bit her lip and took the glistening stay. Hot oil ran onto her finger. She licked it, and the first taste of nourishment, warm and delicious amid the nightmare of cold hunger, made the weakness in her chest tremble into a rush. She sat in a huddle by the fire, licking the whalebone corset stay, turning the spit and crying silent tears.
Sheridan squinted quizzically down at her across the flames.
"Excuse me," she said, taking a mortified swipe at her eyes.
"Never mind. Any person of sensibility would weep over goose cracklings." He shrugged. "I rather feel like it myself."
"I don't know why. It's just that—this goose—" She sniffed, and wiped her face again. "I daresay you won't understand."
He said nothing. She gazed at the roasting bird and then ventured to glance up at him. He was smiling gently at her.
"It's just that," she exclaimed in a wavering voice, "—it's the first time I've ever done anything really…vital! suppose you think I'm…si-si-silly."
He knelt and retrieved the corset stay, settling down next to her cross-legged. Skimming it over the goose, he caught the fresh drippings, then closed his eyes, tilted his head back and sucked at the whalebone until it was clean. "In terms of historical importance," he said, regarding the corset stay respectfully, "I daresay this goose will rate somewhere between the Magna Carta and the Second Coming of Christ."
Through the blur of tears, Olympia felt a tiny smile tug at her lips at the ridiculousness of that notion.
He glanced at her, his gray eyes resting for an instant on her mouth, and then returned to a solemn contemplation of the goose. "We'll commit the details to memory, of course, so that when we're interviewed for the Encyclopaedia—three full pages of description, you know, to be inserted just before the Gutenberg Bible and right after the Glorious First of June—we'll be able to recall the decisive facts that led to this momentous goose. For instance—how long has it taken this goose to cook, would you say?"
She looked longingly at the bird. "I would say about ten thousand years."
He laughed, an abrupt hoot that startled her. But it seemed to relax something inside her, that sudden masculine music. She smiled shyly, acutely aware of his knee pressed against her thigh as he reached from his crosslegged position to skim the drippings again.
He handed her the corset stay and watched her as she licked it. "No doubt it will be known to future generations as simply The Goose," he remarked, "but I think the gravity of the occasion requires something more formal, don't you agree? I propose 'The Glorious Goose of Her Royal Highness Princess Olympia of Oriens, English Maloon and an Impressive Assortment of Other Godforsaken Places.' That way it will still fit into the G's, you see."
"Yes," she said, "but it seems a shame that Admiral Howe and the First of June should still come before."
"The Glorious Bloody Goose, then. You certainly shan't be cut out by some paltry admiral. He only sank five seventy-fours and two eighty-gun French battleships, by God."
Olympia found her smile expanding into a giggle.
"What hey—" he said, peering at her. "Are you laughing? There's a change." He put his arm around her shoulders and bent his forehead to hers. "How pretty you are!"
She stiffened, turning quickly away. But he didn't let go, and the night air was so cold, and the island so lonely, and the situation so desperate, that she sat still where she was and allowed him to touch her.
He didn't move away even when they took down the goose and used her pocket scissors and his knife to cut off portions of meat. Corset stays and fingers made spoons and forks. He sat next to her, his shoulder against hers, dividing the portions with exacting equivalence.
Olympia bit into the first piece of sandy, slightly charred goose and closed her eyes against the intensity of that lifesaving pleasure. It seemed unreal, so familiar and smoky and delicious was it—except for the gritty sand and strange, salty taste imparted by the seaweed. Olympia ate the rubbery green stuff along with her share of the mussels because she was starving, but the sensation of eating solidified ocean water was almost stronger than she could stomach.
When they had finished half the goose, Sheridan put his arm around her again, stopping her move as she reached for another piece.
"That's enough for tonight, my greedy mouse. Think of breakfast."
Olympia pulled back, embarrassed. "Yes, of course." She sat stiffly in the curve of his arm, not knowing where to look. "But you should have some more. I'm convinced that your larger frame requires much more nourishment than mine," she added conscientiously.
"I've lived off less. And you're not conditioned to it." He squeezed her shoulder. "I intend to keep you alive and in proper trim to do all the goose-getting around here."
She looked up into his eyes, struck by the painful desire to allow herself to sink back into the protection of his embrace. It seemed a powerful shelter against the weariness and fright that flooded in on her now that her hunger was diminished. He was so confident, so easy and assured, while the edge of panic pushed at Olympia every moment.
He smiled down at her. Olympia's scruples wavered. She let her rigid spine relax a little, resting tentatively against the curve of his shoulder and chest.
"I suppose," she said, "that you've been through much worse than this."
"Much," he said comfortably.
Compared to her cold cheeks and hands, he felt very warm where his body touched hers. She searched for something to take her mind off it. "What's the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
He gave her a dry look. "Now there's a charming topic of conversation."
"I imagine you've been through some terrible battles. "
The rhythmic, solacing brush of his fingers on her arm stopped. He didn't answer.
She glanced sideways at him. He was staring off into the night. As she watched, a faint frown seemed to slide over his face like a shadow.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Never mind."
He shifted a little, loosening his hold on her. "It's a natural thing to wonder about."
And he left her at that. Wondering. After a few moments of silence, she said, "Did you never think of leaving the navy? After the great war was over, I mean."
"Madam, I've lived, breathed and dreamed of leaving the navy for thirty years."
"But you never did."
He made an abstract design in the sand with his knife blade and wiped it out again. "I came close."
"What happened?" She tilted her head.
"I tried being a destitute civilian once. I wasn't very good at it." His breath glowed in the firelight and mingled with hers for an instant before the rising breeze took it. He gazed down at the knife, making another little circle with the point. "Sometimes," he added softly, "I was afraid I might hurt somebody."
She frowned at him.
He looked up and met her eyes, staring at her for a moment, and then blinked. He shrugged and grinned. Before she could pull away, he dropped a light kiss on her forehead. "Show a little cheer, Princess. We ain't dead yet."
Looking down at her lap, she murmured, "Are you not worried?"
"Are you?"
She bit her lip. "I'm frightened to death."
He was silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, "Well, it don't do to say so, you know. Doesn't go down well with the adoring masses. People get the notion you're a poltroon."
She lifted her eyes. "You are afraid."
"Quaking in my boots. But after you've been quaking in 'em for thirty years, you get pretty good at hoaxing."
She stiffened a littl
e, frowning.
"Did you think heroes were never afraid, Princess?" His mouth turned up in a mocking curl. "Do you suppose dragons look any smaller at close range? They don't. They look a deuce of a lot bigger." The firelight cast his face in glow and shadow, making his brows seem heathen slashes, his mouth grim and merciless. He could have been one of the dragons himself.
"But after all," she said, recalled to what he was, quivering between renewed anger and disappointment and cautious not to show either, "you've dispatched them. A great number." She paused and asked carefully, "Or has it all been a great hoax?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I'm a fairly downy bird when it comes to hoaxing dragons. But when one of 'em ties you down and punches you in the stomach, not to mention beating you over the head and drowning you by degrees, it's high time to retire from the field with what grace you can muster." He looked at her, his dark lashes swept low over the silver firelight in his eyes. "I'm sorry you were caught out in the middle, but it's no place for princesses, you know. Dragons have a particular taste for a sweet and helpless royal highness."
"I thought that was what the hero was for," she said tartly. "To rescue the princess."
"Well, you're not eaten, are you? And we heroes weren't created just for the convenience of some feather-headed princess gone astray. We have lives of our own. Hopes, plans, railway stocks…" He shook his head. "But nobody ever thinks of that. It's just rescue the princess and live happily ever after. I've never heard precisely what we're supposed to do when the princess would prefer to start a revolution than marry the poor sod who risked his neck to rescue her. Or announces"—his smile held a bitter twist—"that she'd rather become a streetwalker."
Olympia sat up away from him. "Steal her jewels, perhaps," she said acidly.
To her astonishment and rage, he had the gall to catch her back. Olympia struggled, pushing at his hands, but in spite of her fight he held her up close to him, his arm around her chest. "You'll have your damned jewels returned," he said into her hair.
"Release me!" She went stiff and utterly still. "I hate you."
"I said you'll have them back! That'll have to be good enough, curse you."
"Good enough!" With a mighty effort she tore away and scrambled to her feet, turning on him savagely. "You don't understand anything, do you? You don't have the first notion of right or wrong or loyalty or honor! Nothing would be good enough! I thought you were a hero, oh, yes. A real hero, worth respect, and admiration, and—and love." She gave the end of a burning log a hard kick, sending sparks spiraling off into the night. "I loved you! Can you comprehend that? I loved you, and you did that to me—betrayed me and robbed me and left me alone. Alone, when I'd given you all the trust and devotion I was capable of giving! When I'd read about you since I was fifteen, and pasted every report from the Naval Chronicle into my scrapbook; when I'd treasured every clipping about your medals and your ships and the things you've done—when I dreamed about meeting you every night of my life!" She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands, feeling the wild tears coming. "I loved you." Her voice trembled into a squeak. "I loved you…and you…betrayed me."
The tears leaked from beneath her eyelids, hot tracks on her icy cheeks. In the windy silence, the fire popped. Her lip trembled. She put her fist to her mouth and turned away, unable to bear looking at him.
"You loved me, did you?" His voice was quiet and cutting. "You never knew me."
"Obviously," she said.
After a moment, he said on a queer, soft note, "You might have. I would have let you."
She whirled around. "Good God, why should I wish to? Who are you? A thief. A blackguard."
He looked up at her, one arm braced around his knee. All the humor had left his face, leaving the bleak, battle-scarred remnants of perfection. "I gave up on ethics before I was fourteen. I settled for plain survival. One day at a time, Princess—I told you, that's all I know how to do."
She pulled the cloak around her. "How can you live like that?" Her voice was scathing. "What's the point of it?"
He stared into the fire. His breath seemed uneven for a moment. Then he lifted his face to look at her with a faint, wry wistfulness. "That maybe tomorrow will be an improvement?" he suggested. "That I might be around to see what color the sunrise will be? That I might have a midshipman called home before he's blown apart in battle, or hear a princess laugh? I don't know. What's the point?"
He looked down and began covering the rest of the goose in seaweed, carefully collecting every bit of flesh and bone and adding it to the bucket.
"It seems to me," she said shakily, "that the point is to try to make the world a better place."
"How?" His voice was flat.
"You know how. You've done it—in spite of yourself, I suppose! By fighting injustice and tyranny."
"Yes, that's what the papers call it, don't they?" He bent over the fire, pushing sand onto the coals to preserve them. "Glorious stuff. For instance, take the time I attempted to recite a poem on the topic to an Algerian corsair. They took out my cabin and the whole of the second gun deck in one volley." He sat back on his heels, staring out into the night. "Not a bad shot for Berbers, actually. Odd how the enemy seems to cherish the backward notion that we're the tyrants. Makes 'em downright violent." He paused. His face grew very taut and strange. "Stupid of me to underestimate that. I lost a lot of men." He turned back and stared at her, his eyes like silver smoke. "I'm already pretty well damned to burn, you see. I've got more than stolen jewels on my soul."
She held his gaze for a long moment. The cold breeze lifted her hair and touched her neck the same way a queer, shuddery finger of emotion touched her heart. "You're trying to make me feel sorry for you," she snapped.
He laughed softly and stood up. "Maybe so." Firelight cast moving light on his hands and face, blending his dark hair and clothes into the night behind. "Why not?" he asked quietly. "It's lonely out here with the dragons."
Fifteen
* * *
She was in her bedroom, snuggled down to her nose in her own bed against the freezing air. Mr. Stubbins bent over her with his golden hair and his lesson frown. "You must drink," he said. "History teaches us that the will of the people overcomes tyranny. Drink."
She tried to move and couldn't. Her head felt like a leaden weight.
He wore a uniform, braids and epaulettes that gleamed against the dark. "I am willing to fight," he exclaimed. "I am willing to die. Don't be afraid."
With a steel flourish, he drew his sword. A sensation of horror gripped her. She turned in the dark and something was there—she heard its breath; she felt its hot touch; she tried to scramble up and run and found herself mired on the ground. It hunkered over her, pinning her down with warm weight, the soft underbelly pressing on her body.
Terrified, she arched her head back and saw the glittering blackness, the huge frame and graceful tail—a nightmare hiss and slash.
A dragon, she thought. And then, with strange wonder: How beautiful it is.
"For the People!" Mr. Stubbins shouted, lifting his sword.
No, she tried to cry, no, it's a dragon!
She could not form the words. The sword swung in a bright arc against the night and the dragon moved like a cat, a sudden shimmer of black and silver that flashed and struck in silence.
The uniformed figure lay still on the ground, leaking blood that dulled the polished braids and ruined the golden epaulettes.
"He's dead," the dragon said, holding her trapped when she would have run to the fallen form.
She stared at the limp and broken body while the blood spread and stained the deck. "You killed him!" she cried. "I loved you, and you killed him!"
The dragon's hold dug into her shoulders. "I'm not a dragon. I'm a man."
"I hate you. I hate you. I loathe you!"
His belly slid against hers; he buried his head in her naked shoulder—and suddenly he was kissing her skin, forcing weight on her, his body pressing warmth and lust into hers.
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"I want to touch you," he whispered, his hand on her thigh.
"Oh, God. "She trembled and arched. "You can't. You can't do this."
His palm slid upward, caressing her thighs, her inner skin. She moaned with the feel of it, the intimate heat moving toward a center of fire. They were both naked, his male shape pressed down on her, into her.
"No," she whimpered. But her hands molded the length of his back, the breadth of his shoulders—passed along the flame-touched curve of muscle and bone. "I hate you. I can't. Why are you doing this?"
He did not answer. His kiss scored the arch of her throat; his hand sought the heart of her tumult: a pressing, violent, sweet sensation.
"I hate you." She twisted and clutched and moaned in desperation. "Oh, I hate you!"
His body enveloped her, covered her in hot darkness and passion. She felt his touch on her lips and throat. She tried to see him and saw dragon eyes in the night, glittering silver.
"I'm a man, "he whispered. "I'm a man."
"I won't," she cried. "I can't!" And yet she reached for him, tried to pull his body close in shame and urgency.
"Oh, please," she said, "oh, please…"
He covered her, drowned her in black fire and glittering darkness. And she let him, weeping with humiliation; moving and pulsing with pleasure.
Olympia opened her eyes with a faint start. The ache of excitement still throbbed between her legs. She shifted underneath the sealskin and blinked past the dream to consciousness.
A foot away, Sheridan was still asleep. Cold sunlight filtered through the tussock roof of the stone hut, lighting an uneven streak on the sandy floor. From outside the door came the sound of rooks, arguing and fluttering, and beneath that the ever-present murmur of the surf.